This time, dammit, she was going to vote no matter what.
She was waiting on the bench at the bus stop a half-hour early. The bus stopped just past the bench and Waterloo saw on the back a pasty, pink, grinning man with perfect teeth shouting in a cartoon bubble, VOTE! IT’S YOUR RIGHT! IT’S YOUR DUTY! As Waterloo made her way to the bus door she mumbled, “Sure thing, you old fart.”
DEMOCRACY BY JOHN ALLISON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 75
Waterloo was on hold. Had been for 12 minutes. Eight to go before break was over.
“County clerk’s office. May I help you?”
When someone finally spoke on the other end Waterloo had just swallowed a chunk of ham sandwich. She choked a hello.
“Yes, mam, I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to vote. I used to know, then they, you know, the assholes—oops, sorry, didn’t mean to say that—the, uh, the guys in charge decided they were playing poker and shuffled the precincts willy-nilly. I looked at the new map, and I’m right on a line.”
“Poker?”
“Never mind.”
“Address please?”
“2819 Laurel.”
“Is that in Pearce, Forrest Hi…